


The Game Is A Foot

by MaddyHughes



Category: Hannibal (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boys Kissing, Cannibalism, Eat The Rude, Humor, Kissing, M/M, Murder, Snogging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 07:47:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2684888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaddyHughes/pseuds/MaddyHughes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham are visited by Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, hot on the trail of a killer. Or, some might say, just hot. Contains longing glances, lack of manners, and a severed foot. Hannigram. Johnlock. Kissing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Game Is A Foot

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: slight spoilers for Hannibal Series 2 episode 11. This is set during S2 Ep9 'Shizakana', which is where it begins, with dialogue taken from the episode. 
> 
> And yes, I know that’s not how you spell ‘afoot’.

The Game Is A Foot

 

‘When you sent a man to kill me,’ said Hannibal, ‘were you imagining killing me yourself? Living vicariously through him as if your hands were tightening the noose around my neck? Or were you simply hiding?’

Hannibal gazed at Will searchingly. They both leaned on his vast, glossy desk, their bodies less than a foot apart.

‘I wasn’t hiding from anything the first time I tried to kill you,’ replied Will. His hands clasped the edge of the desk, the cords in his forearms standing out starkly.

‘You were hiding,’ Hannibal corrected him. ‘Behind the gun.’

His eyes were searching. Compelling.

‘You must allow yourself to be intimate with your instincts, Will.’

His hand reached for Will’s. His finger stroked the back of his knuckles, softly over the ridges and the valleys. Will opened his mouth to speak.

There was a knock on the door of Hannibal’s office. Brisk and authoritative and—if it were possible for a knock—impatient.

‘Pardon me,’ said Hannibal, rising from his desk. He held Will’s gaze for a moment, as if cementing what they had said, the touch, the emotion between them, before he went to the door and opened it.

Two men stood there. The taller, in a long black overcoat with a blue scarf wrapped around his neck, had dark curly hair, ice-blue eyes, and a steely glare that could fell a horse at sixty paces. The other, shorter with sandy hair and a military bearing, had a similarly grim expression, though his eyes were friendlier.

‘Sherlock Holmes,’ said the taller, immediately as soon as the door was opened. ‘This is my colleague Dr John Watson. You are Dr Hannibal Lecter?’         

‘I am he,’ replied Hannibal, with his customary courtesy. ‘I am also afraid that my office hours are over for the evening.’

‘And yet you have a patient,’ said Sherlock Holmes, pushing past Hannibal into the room. Dr Watson followed him, similarly unapologetic.

‘I consider it rude,’ said Hannibal calmly, ‘to enter a room without being invited.’

‘Politeness is irrelevant and boring,’ said Sherlock, tossing back the tails of his coat and sitting in Hannibal’s leather consulting armchair. ‘Usually, it is a cover-up for the truth. I am here, Dr Lecter, to talk to you about the Hammersmith Horror.’

John stood beside Sherlock, his hands clasped behind his back, but his stance and his expression betraying his state of alertness. Will, who had remained sitting on Hannibal’s desk, asked, ‘The Hammersmith Horror?’

Sherlock glanced at him. ‘Ah, you are Will Graham. The FBI profiler.’

‘Former FBI profiler,’ corrected Will with a grimace. ‘My official responsibilities were removed after I was incarcerated in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane on suspicion of multiple homicide.’

‘I fancy they were not quite removed,’ said Sherlock. ‘I perceive that the FBI is still making full use of your services, though perhaps in a more subtle way.' 

‘And you’re Scotland Yard’s consulting detective,’ said Will. ‘I’ve heard of you, too.’

‘Yes, we are similar in that we both have an unorthodox and unofficial role, and are viewed by the official forces as slightly dangerous and definitely mentally ill.'

'Put that way, it sounds so flattering,' said Will drily.

'From observing your clothes, I see that I am paid more for my expertise,' Sherlock added. 'Or perhaps you are lacking in dress sense.’ 

‘Thanks,’ said Will.

‘Anyway, as I was saying: the Hammersmith Horror. You may have  learned about it in the news. A body found elaborately displayed in a library. The victim was decapitated, and his head was placed in his lap. There was a copy of  _Debrett’s Guide to Etiquette_  where his head should be.’

‘A very pointed message,’ commented Hannibal. ‘Who was the victim?’

‘Neville Hawksley,’ said John. ‘He was a broadcaster and newspaper columnist, famous—or rather, infamous—for his inflammatory and often insulting views. He had a lot of enemies.’

‘Then you must have a lot of suspects,’ said Will.

‘It bears certain similarities to the work of your Chesapeake Ripper,’ said Sherlock. ‘The display, the history of past wrongdoing.  Or, to be more accurate, rudeness. You are somewhat more intelligent than most people, Dr Lecter. I’m sure you can trace the parallels yourself without my having to spell it out for you. Likewise my conclusions.' 

The detective stared at Hannibal with an unwavering gaze. Hannibal returned his gaze, equally unwavering.

‘Were there…pieces missing?’ asked Will.

‘Yes,’ said John. ‘His right foot.’

‘We speak of getting off on the right foot,’ observed Hannibal. ‘It is only an idiom, but like many figures of speech, it has a hidden meaning to it. In French, it is  _faux pas_ —a false step. Perhaps our killer is trying to say that the victim has committed one social error too many.’

‘He was rude,’ added Will. ‘And the killer was correcting him.’

‘So,’ said Sherlock, steepling his fingers together under his chin, never losing eye contact with Hannibal, ‘care to chat with us about your recent trip to the United Kingdom, Dr Lecter?’

Hannibal sat in the armchair facing Sherlock, the chair usually used by his patients. ‘I was in London last week chairing a symposium on psychiatric disorder. I delivered a paper on surgical addiction.’

‘And you found the time between clinical discussions to nip over to Hammersmith to dismember a newspaper columnist, did you?’

Will jumped up. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, this is ridiculous.’

‘On the contrary, it’s eminently logical,’ replied Sherlock. ‘Dr Lecter, you’re a clever man. Do you see how I have arrived at my conclusion?’

‘It is fascinating,’ said Hannibal.

Will drew in a long breath. ‘Sherlock, can I have a word in private please?’

‘No,’ said Sherlock Holmes.

Will turned to Hannibal. ‘Hannibal, if you’d go to your waiting room, I can sort all of this…misunderstanding out in a few minutes.’

‘No,’ said Hannibal Lecter. ‘This is my office, Will, and I desire nothing more than to follow the chain of Mr Sherlock Holmes’s reasoning.’

Will ran his hands through his disheveled hair. ‘Dr Watson—’

John looked from Sherlock to Will. ‘I…’

‘Go, John,’ said Sherlock without looking at him. ‘See what Mr Graham has to say that is so urgent.’

John followed Will out to Hannibal’s waiting room. No sooner had he shut the door behind him than they heard the key turning in the lock.

Will faced John, full of barely-suppressed anger. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he whispered urgently. ‘This is the worst moment you could possibly have chosen!’

‘Will, I know this might slow down your therapy a bit, and I’m very sorry to have to tell you, but your psychiatrist is a killer.’

‘Do you think I don’t  _know that?_ ’ hissed Will. ‘I’m laying a trap here. And you and your detective chum have blundered in and trampled all over my carefully-laid lures.’

‘Lures?’ repeated John. ‘You’re trying to trap him? By yourself?’ 

‘Listen,’ said Will, running his hand through his hair. ‘Hannibal is dangerous. Your friend is in there with him right now, locked in the room with him, accusing him of murder. Dr Lecter finds that  _very rude._ And people who Dr Lecter finds very rude tend to end up as part of his next dinner party.’

‘Sherlock can handle himself.’

‘That’s probably what Neville Hawksley thought.’

John looked closely at Will. ‘You seem very upset. Do you have some sort of personal connection to Hannibal Lecter?’

Will swallowed. Possibly too personal, though he wasn’t going to say that.  _Definitely_ too personal. ‘What’s your connection?’.

‘Sherlock and I are here to catch a killer.’

‘You don’t fly from London to Baltimore to catch a killer by confronting him in his own psychiatric consulting room. You call the FBI and you give them your evidence and you let them arrest him. Coming here is stupid. It’s a good way to get yourselves killed and eaten.’

‘Eaten?’ John blanched.

‘Hannibal had the British Ambassador over from Washington for a dinner party last night. I’d be very surprised if Mr Hawksley's foot wasn’t part of the canapés.’

‘That is disgusting,’ stated John Watson. 

‘The evidence is long gone. And if you wanted to catch Hannibal, you’d send in an armed SWAT team. So why are you really here?’

John frowned. He sat down on the sofa. ‘Sherlock is a little bit…obsessive. It’s how he solves things. But sometimes, it borders on…’

‘Madness?’ suggested Will. ‘I think I know how he feels.’

‘He’s talked of nothing else but Hannibal Lecter for days now. Weeks. Even before the body was found, I caught him looking at photos of Dr Lecter from the internet. He was at that symposium, too. He listened to the paper Dr Lecter gave. He went in disguise.’

Will sat beside John. ‘He knows that Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper?’

John hesitated.

‘What?’ prompted Will. ‘Does he know, or doesn’t he?’

‘He knows,’ said John at last. ‘But his obsession isn’t just that. It goes beyond solving a puzzle, or stopping a crime. He’s fascinated. He can talk of nothing else. I’ve only seen him like this once before. He seems…attracted to Hannibal Lecter.’

Will looked at John closely. ‘You’re  _jealous_ ,’ he said at last.

‘No,’ said John quickly. 'I keep telling people: I'm straight.'

'You are totally jealous.'

‘Well…yes.’

‘Sherlock Holmes knows Hannibal is evil. He knows he’s capable of the most horrible, terrifying things. And yet he doesn’t care. He wants him—all his cleverness, all his charm.’

‘The Scandinavian cheekbones,’ added John.

‘Even though wanting him is absolutely the worst thing that he could possibly do, he can’t resist.’

‘No,’ said John miserably. ‘No, he can’t.’

‘He’s teetering on the edge of a precipice, more dangerous than he can possibly imagine. He’s within inches of death. And yet, despite the fact that he knows that it will kill him, all he wants to do is jump.’

‘Do you know all of this because you’re a profiler?’ asked John.

‘I know this,’ gritted Will, ‘because I feel exactly the same way.’

And because he couldn’t do anything about it, because Sherlock Holmes was locked in that room with Hannibal, and because Will had to do something, anything, or else he was going to explode, he reached forward, grabbed John Watson shoulders, pulled him close, and kissed him. 

*****

Sherlock turned the key in the lock, and faced Hannibal Lecter again.

‘So,’ said Hannibal, steepling his own hands together in a mirror of the pose Sherlock Holmes had held until a moment ago, ‘what makes you think that I killed Neville Hawksley?’ 

‘I don’t think it. I know it.’ Sherlock paced in front of the curtained windows, his shadow bisecting the red stripe. 

‘You are very certain of yourself.’

‘I am also very certain that you are the Chesapeake Ripper. And that in other times, you have been known as the Copenhagen Killer, the Vilnius Viper, and the Devil of Budapest.’

Hannibal winced. ‘The Vilnius Viper is such a vulgar name.’

‘What did you do to the foot? Stew it? Roast it? I’m no cook, but it seems a difficult cut of meat.’

‘The collagen in feet can be useful to a chef,’ commented Hannibal, as if he were carrying on a light conversation between acts at the opera. ‘The stock is quite rich and has a gelatinous texture. In many cultures a dish made with cow’s foot or pig’s foot is regarded as an aphrodisiac.’

‘And it’s particularly useful when you want to teach someone a lesson.’

‘That would certainly seem to be the case in this instance.’

Sherlock launched himself across the room and almost before Hannibal could react, he was hovering over Dr Lecter, his hands gripping the arms of his chair, his face inches from his. 

‘What lesson would you teach me, Dr Lecter?’ he ground out. ‘What do you think that I can learn from you?’

‘You may be able to learn some manners,’ said Hannibal mildly. But the intensity in his eyes belied his words.

‘You are extraordinary,’ said Sherlock. ‘I have only met one other criminal like you, and he is dead.’

‘I beg to differ,’ said Hannibal. ‘I am entirely unique. At least, for the present. I have some hopes I may soon have found my equal.'

‘You leave no trace. Nothing for the police to find. And I have been over the scene you have created myself, and I have found nothing. No forensic evidence, nothing out of place.’

‘The killer is clever.’

‘There is nothing to be found at that crime scene but a corpse, and your personality,’ said Sherlock Holmes. ‘Your intent. Your  _mind_.' 

‘And it is the mind that interests you? Even more than the acts?’

‘It is the mind behind the acts.’

‘And  _your_  mind is also extraordinary,’ mused Hannibal. ‘It is driven, and yet much more complex than one would expect of a mere calculating machine. You have had therapy?’

‘Never.’

‘You must try it. You are not happy. You are driven forward by something deep within you, something you lack. It stops you from being anything but pure mind, pure intellect. And yet you have a body, Sherlock Holmes. You have a will and desire.’

Sherlock only stared at him. His breath was rapid, his knuckles white on the arms of Hannibal’s chair.

‘I would quite enjoy getting inside your mind,’ said Hannibal. ‘I think it would be very…rewarding.’ 

‘You are evil,’ whispered Sherlock. ‘The Michelangelo of murder.’

‘You think so, and yet you find me fascinating.’

Their faces were mere inches from each other. Hannibal inhaled, smelling Sherlock’s scent. Nicotine patch, airline coffee, expensive overcoat. A deep, cell-level craving for something. Perhaps drugs.

Perhaps something closer to hand.

Hannibal tilted up his head, as if to better see Sherlock. And Sherlock dipped his.

Their lips met.

 


End file.
